


the stories they write of shall not be ours

by river_soul



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 17:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/river_soul/pseuds/river_soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the beginning, Jeyne dreams of being rescued. </p><p>She imagines a handsome knight, moved by the plight of poor Arya Stark and the Bolton Bastard, who comes to steal her away from the horrors of Winterfell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the stories they write of shall not be ours

In the beginning, Jeyne dreams of being rescued. 

She imagines a handsome knight, moved by the plight of poor Arya Stark and the Bolton Bastard, who comes to steal her away from the horrors of Winterfell. She prays for him in the Godswood, opens her heart up before the dark gaze of the weirwood tree and pleads to be heard.

She even kneels before the Mother and Maiden in the sept, praying for rescue and protection.

 _In songs the fair maiden is always rescued by her knight_ Jeyne thinks but then she remembers the horror of her wedding night, of what was stolen from her. _I am a maid no more_ she thinks and feels the hope rush out of her, cold and cruel. She tells herself it is better this way, finding some strange, dark relief in letting go of her illusions, of the hope she’d kept bound in her chest. 

Now she dreams of the Stranger, his kiss cold and true. In her dreams he doesn't bring her salvation but death, an end to her suffering and she is grateful. 

\--

She asks Theon once, only once, for the mercy of a sharp blade against the soft skin of her throat but the fear and shame that overtook him was enough to still her tongue. 

She learns then to pray for the night Ramsay will go too far, push too hard and take that last bit of her. It takes her weeks, heart heavy in her chest as she endures his cruelty and depravity before she realizes, despite all the men she’s seen him kill and all those beautiful girls he destroys, that he will not grant her an end. 

_He will never let me go._

\--

There is a great feast, a welcome gift for some new Lord her husband needs for his schemes. Jeyne does not know his name and she does not ask. Instead she sits beside Ramsay at the table, her clothes chafing against the tender skin of her back but she does not fidget. 

They say she is beautiful, these Lords who bow before her but they do not look to her eyes, sad and brown. Arya’s had been clear and grey but no one seems to notice. 

Jeyne had despised Arya, brave and reckless when she was younger and had worshiped Sansa. There had been a time when Jeyne had prayed that it would be her instead of Sansa that would wed the handsome prince but _Sansa is dead_ Jeyne thinks and grief fills her. Ramsay tells her the real Arya Stark is dead, too, but it’s difficult for Jeyne to think of her as anything but wild and free. 

Jeyne thinks if Arya were really here, Ramsay would have died the first night he tried to touch her, a knife in his gut. She imagines then, what it would be like to kill Ramsey with her own hands. To slice away that mocking smile from his lips and carve out his dead, black heart. 

Her hand tightens around the handle of the knife she holds and she sees the way it gleams, a shallow light against the darkness of the Great Hall. She has almost strung together enough bravery to hide it in her sleeve when Ramsay turns to her then, his gaze dark and heavy. _He knows_ she thinks wildly, fingers bloodless around the knife but then he turns away and laughs at the man who sits beside him. 

She relaxes and breathes out, the knife a heavy weight in her hands still. 

\--

 

It is three days later, when Ramsay comes to her drunk and furious, tearing at her clothes with unkind hands, that the thought comes to her again. He smells of blood and soured wine and his mouth is hot and angry against her. She does not resist him but softens, compliant and terrified. She prays he will take her quickly. It is easier on the nights when he is too drunk for anything more.

Jeyne closes her eyes, tries to crawl away into the empty space where her hope had once grown. She doesn’t see the blade until he drags it across her cheek and she cries out. The cut is shallow but it burns when he draws his tongue across the sharp red line.

When she tries to pulls away, he catches her across the face, the crack of his hand against her jaw enough to make her see stars. He forces her down on their bed and cuts the thin material of her shift away She struggles no more, fearful of the blade, but he abandons it in favor of unlacing his breaches. 

He takes her roughly, without warning but she does not cry, does not make a sound. She waits until he is buried fully inside her, eyes closed and groaning obscenely. He arches forward, the tendons of his neck pulled taut as he strains into her body and she thinks _now now it must be now_ and finds his knife, in the folds of the furs. The steel is cold against her fingers but the hilt is warm and she grips it tightly.

His throat opens easily under the small blade and his blood is hot and wet against the naked the skin of her chest. He lurches forward, eyes wide and she can see the surprise on his face. Fear laces through her hot and tight when he rolls off her. He falls to his knees on the stone floor, gurgling and clawing at the wound. 

_He is not dead_ she realizes with horror as he struggles upwards, blood gushing from his shredded throat. She screams but no one comes. _I’m always screaming_ she thinks as he stumbles toward her. “No, no no,” she sobs, something broken and guttural in her cry that brings Theon to his feet from his place at the foot of her bed.

For a moment he does nothing, his expression stunned but then suddenly he is up and moving. His ruined fingers take Ramsay’s long sword, discarded carelessly on the floor, and he drives it clean through her husband. 

Ramsay is dead before he hits the floor and Jeyne can only stare numbly at his body, at the mess they have made. She thinks she should feel fear or relief but instead she feels nothing, as though the sword Theon ran her husband through with had taken her own heart as well. 

When she looks to Theon he is shaking, his steady hands gone, but when she meets his gaze she sees something flash in Theon’s eyes, some spark of recognition. “We must go. Now,” he tells her. 

He helps her dress, fingers surprisingly gentle as he cleans the blood from her body. She does not realize she is trembling, suddenly terrified again until he whispers _be still._

The odd calm and authority she hears in his voice brings her back to herself. _Ramsay is dead_ she realizes, the sensation strange and jarring as he helps her dress warmly, hiding the long sword under her heavy cloak. He takes the bread and dried meat on the table and the skin of wine before he takes her arm gently. 

They do not stop for more food or supplies, but slip out unseen and quietly into the night. The snow is soft underfoot and the moon hangs, swollen and white, in the sky. It begins to snow and Jeyne knows they have little chance of escaping without Ramsay’s men finding them and an even smaller chance of surviving the winter, but she finds she is not afraid.

Theon takes her hand, his fingers mangled and scarred, but his grip is firm. They head north, through the Godswood and Jeyne stills when she catches sight of the great weirwood tree. Its leaves are bright under the moon’s light, a flare of color in the sea of darkness and Jeyne feels something loosen inside her chest then. 

_I am free_ she thinks, warmth spreading through her. _I am free._

**Author's Note:**

> New [tumblr](http://river-soul.tumblr.com/) friends are always welcome!


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